we can be heroes
by concerned-burritos
Summary: Sherlock, two years after his fall, receives a phone call regarding the whereabouts of John Watson: he's missing. They say they've checked every place, but there's on in particular Sherlock is certain they've forgotten. - This is a POV story and each chapter is a different point of view. The majority of the story is their phone call. Questions? Let me know.
1. Chapter 1

_"This phone call is... is my note. That is what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

Sherlock's eyes flashed open as he sat himself up in his bed, his breath rapidly trying to escape his mouth, his hands sweating, and his eyes wide. He had been having the same exact dream every night, since the... incident occurred. It was not something Sherlock, our hero here, was proud of, nor did he particularly enjoy thinking of. Yet, unfortunately, even his own reflection reminded him of that painfully dreadful morning where he had, involuntarily, lost everything. His entire world had slipped right out of his hands, leaving him with the most outrageously difficult, but his only, option. It was not a decision he was fond of, but he had no way out of this. He was trapped, like a tiger in a cage at a zoo. Kept locked up to entertain others whilst it meant embarrassing himself and destroying his dignity.

_"Leave a note when?"_

Sherlock pushed himself out of bed, leaving the brunette girl beside him to continue sleeping. He rubbed his temples, sweat still stuck on his forehead - his back sticky from the moisture that had rested in between the bed sheets and his peach colored skin. Sherlock quietly persevered himself into bathroom, closing the door gently behind him as he hurried to the sink, anxious to scrub the sleep off his face. As he bent over the sink, Sherlock nearly lost his balance, a slight gasp escaped his lips as he quickly grabbed onto the counter, keeping himself up and from falling to the cold tile. His eyes flickered up to the mirror. He was hesitant about taking in his reflection, but was captivated by what he saw. It was no surprise the events had taken such a toll on him, but he had not expected for things to be as drastic as they were. His once gorgeous, glistening, blue eyes were now full of exhaustment and lament. Dark circles formed a barricade around the glass balls, which stood out more now due to the weight loss in his face and all over his body, his face now more angular than before. The poor thing had ended up starving himself, some nights, due to the lack of appetite, and lack of desire for life. His motivation was gone, entirely. He was left with nothing but sorrow, pain, devastation and, what appeared to be, heartbreak.

_"Goodbye, John."_

Sherlock bit his lip as he stood himself up, the usual burning sensation stinging his eyes like it would whenever he would break out into a cry, or a sob. He did not dare look at himself, for fear he would see himself as a mess, a _wreckage_, and did not want to see just how broken and vulnerable he really was without _him_.

_"No. Don't—"_

Letting out a sigh, Sherlock quickly scrubbed the sorrow off his face with moist washcloth before hurrying out of the bathroom. As he went headed for the bed, wanting to go back to sleep, he raised an eyebrow as the sound of his phone vibrating against the kitchen table, faintly, filled the room. His eyes flickered to Molly, who was peacefully sleeping. He stared at her, for a moment, before turning away and headed to the kitchen. Making sure he closed the bedroom door behind him, Sherlock slowly followed the path leading into the kitchen. The house was not his, it belonged to a friend of Miss Molly Hooper's. Molly had helped him after the...incident. She knew about the entire thing, she had offered to take care of him. Molly promised to hide him, while everyone thought he was dead, to protect him. He had asked her, the night before his faked death, if she would help him with everything and she was very quick to accept. Molly had always fancied Sherlock, ever since the first day he walked into the morgue. He knew it right away by the way she would stare at him from across the room, how she would bring up any subject for a conversation. Sherlock was not the romantic type, not at the slightest bit. He adored Molly, in his own way, but he needed her as a friend more than anything. A relationship with Molly would risk the friendly bond the two shared, and he did not want to risk that; he did not want to ruin such an incredible friendship.

She had him stay at her friend's house, who was also in on it, who knew exactly how much Sherlock had meant to Molly throughout the years. Molly would tell her friend, quite often, about how in love with Sherlock she was. Convincing her to let them stay at her house was easier than the two had thought. The friend was gone for college, most of the time, so Sherlock was never bothered, and Molly was able to come check up on him. Sometimes Molly would stay the night while Sherlock was having one of his panic attacks, which started after his faked suicide. Recently they had been happening more and more, ever since he had to finally block John's texts from coming through. The man, his best friend, had not been taking this well either. John had sent Sherlock texts every day, not wanting to give up hope. They all consisted of John trying to convince Sherlock to come back, begging him to come back, telling him he could not possibly be dead. This made things even more difficult for Sherlock to deal with. whilst being away from him. Having to do this to his John and all of his loved ones was not an easy task. Even a consulting detective, with amazing powers of deduction, had some form of kryptonite.

Sherlock's eyes glanced at the phone, the screen was lit up and the name read "Mycroft Holmes". It was unusual for his brother to call him this early in the morning, or to call him at all, really. Mycroft, his brother, was also aware of the truth, and helped make sure his secret was safe. So if he called it had to be something incredibly important, since his brother prefered to text his news. Sherlock cleared his throat before pressing accept and held the phone to his ear, letting out a subtle "hello".

"It is John. I... It appears we have lost him. We have searched everywhere, Sherlock. He is not at the flat, he is not at Sarah's. None of the pubs. I do not know where else to look. Do you have any idea-"

"You are wrong. You have not checked everywhere, you fool! How could you look past this, it is staring you in the bloody face. Damn.. damn it! I will be there soon, let me handle this."

"Sherlock, I am afraid that is not a good idea.. You could jeopardize your life, _his_life. We have no idea where Sebastian is, currently, located! This is a huge, ignoramus, risk. Do you understand me?" Mycroft scolded him, his voice stern and slightly breaking at the end of each sentence. Sherlock smirked, looking down at the floor and sighed before looking up again, a heavy breath escaping his lips.

"You obviously do not understand what love is, Mycroft. If you did you would realize, by now, that saving his life is more important than losing mine." He said sharply, a dry laugh leaving his mouth before he quickly hung up, holding the phone tightly in his slender hand, his knuckles turning white due to the tightness of his grip. Sherlock knew exactly where John was, and there was not any time to lose. Without looking away from his phone, Sherlock headed down the hallway, his fingers dancing across his phone's screen as he quickly unblocked John's number. Sherlock knew that if John was really where he thought he was, he would be receiving a message, or two, from him soon.

Sherlock glanced over at Molly, who was now sitting up staring wide eyed at him. Her eyes were wide with worry and she was compassionate enough to not say anything, knowing that nothing could possibly stop him from leaving. He dropped his phone onto the bed as he quickly pulled a pair of black slacks from the dresser, a pair of trousers he hadn't seen in a very long time. A small smile crept onto his face as he pulled them on, and then a white dress shirt followed that, his hands shaking, slightly, as he buttoned them up one by one. This was a routine he used to be extremely familiar with, but it had been so long since he dressed this way that… it was a bit of a refresher, for him. Once that was taken care of, he quickly slipped his feet into his shoes, anxiously trying to finish getting dressed.

As he laced his shoes up, Molly finally gathered the strength to say something, her eyes locked on him.

"You are leaving, aren't you..?" She asked, her voice shaking, sitting herself up straighter as she scooted closer to Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I understand, Sherlock. I know why you have to go, but just know I can go with you if you need me to." Her sweet, sincere, voice sent a warm feeling throughout his body, making him feel loved.

"I am afraid you cannot come along, Molly. This is something I have to do by myself." Sherlock said softly, in response, as he stood up straight and reached into the closet, which was partly opened, and pulled out a black suit coat. He stared at it, for a moment, before sliding his arms into the sleeves, and tugged his jacket down a bit, making sure it was just right before turning around to face Molly. "Thank you, Molly." He said with a nod, staring at her for a moment before snatching his phone off the bed and quickly turning away, making his way out of the bedroom and to the front door.


	2. Chapter 2

The soul of John Watson died officially that day. His entire life was thrown off a rooftop in the middle of London, right before his eyes. Life after Sherlock's jump had been like one of those magic scarves that the clown pulls from his sleeve, and it would keep coming, and coming, and coming, and you would have to anticipate when it would end. It had to end sometime, right?

John had texted Sherlock every single day after his death, pleading with the man to come back, to stop being dead. He wanted his precious Sherlock, his favorite consulting detective, to be alive more than anything in the world. John missed the beautiful sounds of his violin echoing throughout the flat, the elegant music that could be heard from across the street. He missed the sarcastic remarks Sherlock would spew to him, some of which were not the nicest of comments to say to your flatmate. But, nonetheless, John was missing all of the different traits that made up Sherlock. He was so alone; he was so tired of being alone.

The death of his best friend had taken quite a toll on him. John had lost at least thirty-five pounds since the fall, but he was not too concerned about counting. It did not matter to him, he did not care what happened to him. 'The body is only transport' was a quote he often heard in the medical field. Besides lack of eating, John had also taken on a nasty drinking habit.

John would visit his sister Harriet, whom also was an alcoholic, at odd hours of the night when he had woken from the same old nightmare. It was no longer about the war he had endured in Afghanistan, it was the jump that had taken over his nightmares. The image of Sherlock's pale, lifeless body lying on the pavement, covered in blood, was the only thing he could see when he closed his eyes. Harriet would let him in, of course, no matter what time it was. How could she turn down her grieving brother? Once inside they would talk about the nightmare he awoken from and he would cry for hours; John cried even when it hurt to breathe, hurt to blink. His sister would then bring out the alcoholic beverages and together they would drink until sunrise.

John's addiction to alcohol had almost become as bad as his sister's. He would find himself having a bottle of beer at least three times, or more, each day. Sometimes he would go to the pub and take a few shots, if he was feeling incredulously horrid. He did most days.

John was sick of himself. He reeked of booze, sweat and tears. He was sick of this so-called life, this world he lived in without his consulting detective by his side. He thought back on all the times they shared together, but none of them could relight the flame that once burned inside his soul. sometimes the match would spark, ever so slightly, but it would never be lit. The thing would usually snap into two causing John to fall deeper into his depression.

His obsession.

He had done everything in his power to obtain any belongings that belonged to Sherlock. He had begged Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother, for anything: childhood photos, graduation photos, a few clothes, and that famous indigo scarf Sherlock wore ever so often. Anything that reminded John of Sherlock, he wanted it. when he wasn't drinking down his sorrows or vomiting up his feelings, he was at Angelo's. The first restaurant the two ever went together, whilst scoping out one of the suspects they were following. As much as it hurt him, being in the places they once used to go to together, it made him feel better; it made John remember the feelings he had in all these memory filled places.

Sometimes John would try to ask Lestrade for a case, but Greg never gave him any. He knew it was for John's own good. He tried helping him out by giving him a rehab clinic's card, and a list of therapists that could actually help him, but nothing would work. Greg knew damn well that John would never piece himself back together, not even with help.

John figured it was time to take his leave, the toll of losing Sherlock finally causing him to reach his, indescribably painful, breaking point. He thought that, maybe, if there was some sort of afterlife for those who checked themselves out, then maybe he would be reunited with his beloved detective. That was all he wanted: to be with Sherlock again, like old times. A faint smile spread across his lips as a small butterfly of hope fluttered around his decaying carcass.

John had it all planned out, he would just jump off of St. Bart's hospital like Sherlock had. Maybe that would land him in the same place Sherlock had ended up. Maybe he would have a better chance of finding him once he was dead, like Sherlock.

The taxi ride to the hospital was not an enjoyable one, it went by faster than he anticipated but he was eager to get to the top of the building to meet his fate. After paying the cab driver, John slide out of the car and hurried inside the building, avoiding everyone's gaze as he made his way to the stairs. His eyes stayed on the 'Roof Access' sign for a moment before he continued up his walk up the stairs, a beer bottle gripped tightly in his hand. He took long, deep, breaths as he neared the top, his thoughts all over the place. He felt ready to do this, he felt like he no longer had a choice. His life was crumbling beneath his feet and there was no rope or branch to hold onto. Once the last piece of ground were to cave in, he would find himself falling with it. He was now at the state in his life, where he was falling and he needed to find some sort of strip to land on.

Once on the rooftop, his heart started racing wildly. '_This is where he stood. This is where he threw me away.' _John thought to himself as he took a hefty swig from the bottle in his hand. Without hesitation, he neared closer to the ledge of the roof, his eyes glancing down at the number of people driving past, or walking with their colleagues. John was by himself, he had no-one. He laughed to himself before putting the bottle down on the ground and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

,-  
You better be waiting for me.  
-JW  
_Message sent April 17, 2012_  
_'-_

John pressed the little blue send button and waited for the same message to be regurgitated back at him. When he did not receive the 'message failure' text, he blinked down at it with a dark frown. "Do not do this to me," he growled deeply, voice heavy with drink. He picked up the bottle, taking another swig, before putting it back down and sent another message.

Sherlock. If youre readng this  
you better be waitg for me uyo  
stupid jerk.  
-JW  
_ Message sent April 17, 2012_  
_'-_

He did not care about the spelling errors he made, he just wanted to jump already. He inhaled deeply, once more, before picking up the beer bottle and standing himself on the ledge. John felt the wind smack itself against his face, the cold air stinging against his dry, unshaven, skin. Taking one last swig from it, John then tossed the bottle over the edge. John watched it plummet down, down, down, until it hit the sidewalk and smashed into a million little shards of glass. The liquid formed the same sort of pattern Sherlock's brain had made as it cracked over the cement. The corner of John's mouth twitched upwards at the thought of being reunited with Sherlock once again.

John texted Sherlock once more.

,-  
I loved you, you bastard.  
-JW  
_ Message sent April 17, 2012_  
_'-_


	3. Chapter 3

It did not take long to get to his destination:

**St. Bart's Hospital. **

On the way to the hospital, Sherlock had received three messages from, the latest one he had just opened as he stepped out of the taxi. Sherlock's eyes widened as he read it over, his heart skipping a beat as his eyes read the text over and over again. He nearly lost his balance as he closed the taxi door behind him, stumbling to keep himself standing as he walked forward. He loved him. John loved Sherlock. This was amazing, this was absolutely mind-boggling. Love was something Sherlock wasn't able to deduce, nor would he ever be able to deduce such strong emotions. It took him two years to finally realize he truly loved John more than anything in the entire universe, and the tragic part was he realized it the moment he lunged off the roof of St. Bart's. In that moment, he knew what he had thrown away, and what he was losing.

Sherlock was feeling a wide range of emotions at the moment. Anger, sorrow, worry, anxiety, fear. Just hearing someone say the word hospital throws Sherlock into a spiral of anxiety attacks. But to be back in front of the same hospital where it all happened, was something Sherlock would never be ready for.

Pressing John's name, the phone quickly dialed his number as he brought the phone up to his ear, his body shaking. This had to be done, and he could never forgive himself if anything bad happened to John while he was still alive. Mycroft would not be able to stop him, nor Molly. Or anyone else for that matter. John, _his_ John, was more important to him than anyone cared to imagine. He'd rather die than live without him.

His eyes slowly traveled up to the rooftop, nearly causing him to have a heart attack. His John was standing exactly where he thought he would be, on the roof of the hospital. The very same spot where he once stood. Sherlock felt tears start to sting his eyes, for the second time that day, as the images from his daily nightmare came flashing back as if it were happening right in front of him. But, what made this worse, was the fact he'd be the one watching now whilst his best friend, the love of his unusual life, jumped off the roof in order to end the misery of what he called "life without Sherlock".

"Answer... Damn it.. Please.." He whispered to himself as the phone continued to ring.


	4. Chapter 4

John was feeling warm all over. From his head to his toes, he could practically feel the unobstructed pleasure of realising: this was it. He was going to kill himself. Sherlock must have felt the same, right? When he had jumped those many months ago? It must have been over two years now. Two years without his detective, his Sherlock. And so what was John to do, except kill himself? There wasn't anything that made him feel better, feel complete; nothing replaced the feeling he had whenever he was with Sherlock. He had tried dating, he had tried hanging out with Greg and Mike and Molly. He had even tried to have tea with Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother. But nothing, _nothing_, would erase the pain of losing Sherlock Holmes.

Sure, he hadn't been the only one who had lost him. Mycroft had lost a brother, Greg had lost his best consulting detective, and Molly had lost a crush. But John had lost the apparent love of his life. Which was quite silly, considering the fact he found himself attracted to the opposite gender. But with Sherlock.. it was different. There was something beautifully different about the man whom took him in as his assistant. John hadn't had time to realise how much he truly loved Sherlock, until he was gone that is. He had loved him before, yes; but only as a good friend, a brother, perhaps. He was so stubborn into thinking he was completely straight he had never even considered the thought that maybe, just maybe, he actually did love Sherlock romantically.

The man suddenly had a pang of doubt in his lungs. Would this be something that Sherlock would approve of? Would he be angry with John in the afterlife? If there was one, anyway. No, no, he would not. Sherlock was probably waiting for him, wherever it was he was waiting. Sherlock was probably rooting for John to jump-he was always a bit selfish. Sherlock was probably waiting for John to join him so they could reunite and spend the rest of eternity together, which was all John wanted anymore. John took a step towards the edge, legs quivering and shaky. His knees wanted to buck and he wanted to jump already, but something was holding him back, which annoyed him greatly. All he wanted was to end the pain and suffering he was enduring without Sherlock in his life. He had lost his best friend, right before his eyes. He was a doctor for Pete's sake! He could have saved him, but he failed to do so. He could not save his best friend.

Hearing the familiar buzz of his mobile, John snapped out of his daze and looked at it from within his clenched hand and squinted at the name that was displayed.

No.

No, it could not be.

It was a joke, it had to be. Someone must have got Sherlock's phone.

He could not actually be calling from the dead-

John hesitantly brought it to his ear and accepted the call, his hands trembling with every second that passed.

"...Sherlock...?" he asked into the receiver, heart beating at an unreasonable speed.


	5. Chapter 5

At last the sweet sound of ecstasy had made its way back into his precious head; that beautiful song, his favorite song in the entire world, was once again _his_ to claim. Sherlock remained quiet for a moment, his eyes fixated on the short, blonde, male whom stood upon the rooftop of St. Bart's. Sherlock took a deep breath, thinking carefully about his first words, and exhaled loudly, trembling slightly.

"You... You said you wanted one last miracle. So here it is. Now you have got to do one for me. Do not. Jump." He stammered, his eyes still fixed on the blonde doctor, whose life could be ending at any moment. Sherlock sighed, forcing tears to stop forming in his tear ducts, and tried to hold himself together for the sake of his beloved friend.

He would refer to John as his _lover_ but that wasn't their relationship in the eyes of society. That was their relationship in Sherlock's _mind_, but he doubted John had any similar feelings towards him. Sherlock had always admired the Doctor's adorable figure, along with his petty mind and his surprisingly intelligent remarks. Life without his blogger was something he never thought he would have to face, one day. Unfortunately he had, but he was ready to change everything and mend the broken bond between the two friends. He wanted to come home, he _needed_ to come home. Sherlock needed to be with John. Each day without him was torture, and he wanted no more of it.

"John.." Sherlock started, his lip quivering in fear, and sorrow. "..Turn around and look down. Look exactly where you stood on that day, when the situation was reversed." He whispered, sniffling slightly as he tried to convince the man to simply look at him.

John _needed_ to look at him. If he did then they were one step closer to fixing things. John could still remain alive and Sherlock could return home to his blogger at 221B Baker Street.

He would see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and..

Well that was really it. He did not have many people whom were extremely fond of him, but he had his close circle of trustworthy friends and he missed them dearly. Molly was good about keeping him up to date with their lives, and informing him on their health, activities and other details. Even though it killed it him to hear how their lives all managed to go on without him, he still needed that comfort in knowing his friends were alright.

"Please..." Sherlock said, his voice much more confident this time around. "I can explain everything."


	6. Chapter 6

John's eyes had widened at the sound of Sherlock's voice, his whole body was trembling now. He shook his head, swallowing the saliva that was forming in his mouth. "No, no, _no_. You are _dead_ Sherlock, this is not happening! I have lost, haven't I? I have gone mad." John said, a hurt laugh escaped his lips. He was confused and wanted it all to stop. He did not want to feel hurt anymore, or as though he had lost his mind. John just wanted to be happy and finally put his mind at rest, but it was practically impossible with all the madness, involving Sherlock Holmes, occurring.

His body twitched, slightly, when he was told to turn around and look at the ground. John shook his head. "This is a joke, is it not? If this is Moriarty or someone working for him, stop it. Stop it right now! This has gone too far-" John started, as he turned around, but fell silent when he saw the tall, brunette haired, porcelain skinned man he could recognize in a heartbeat. Suddenly everything started spinning and he forced himself to take a step back, taking him off the ledge and onto the main portion of the roof, so he could regain his balance and try his best to keep from passing out.

He was here, Sherlock was alive. But how?! John had watched Sherlock throw himself off the roof of the hospital. He took his pulse for crying out loud! They put a body in the ground at Sherlock's funeral, which everyone believed to be Sherlock's. If he was alive then _whose_ body was in the ground and how did Sherlock survive the fall?  
"...I am afraid I do not understand any of this. Y-You were _dead_! I saw you fall, I took your pulse!" John shouted into the phone, wanting his damn answers.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair, thankful to hear the male's voice on the other end yelling at him. He knew John would be confused and angry with him, but he just could not take staying away from him any longer. Sherlock knew he would explain everything he could to John so it would all make more sense. Of course a simple explanation could not take away the pain that was left with John due to Sherlock's faked suicide, but it was what he needed to do in order for things to be right.

"John listen to my voice, do not hang up. I did not want to leave you, I did not want to hurt you in that way but it happened and there is no taking it back. But let me explain, you deserve some answers after all you have been through." Sherlock said sincerely, looking up at the building, making sure John did not climb back on the edge, his heart still racing.

Sherlock inhaled deeply before exhaling and clearing his throat. He had been waiting for the chance to explain to his beloved blogger about what had actually happened the day of his fall, how he survived, and why he had to stay away for so long. Even though he went over it in his head millions of times, in case he were to finally see John again, he currently did not know how to word any of it, which was completely understandable. He was nervous, feeling slightly under pressure, but it all had to be explained or else he would not be able to live with himself.

"John.. Moriarty had gunmen watching Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. If I chose not to jump, he was going to have you all shot and killed. That was his plan from the very beginning: my suicide. He knew that if he made me look like a fake, a failure, that I would have nothing left and I would be blamed for all the crimes I solved. I had to do it, John. Moriarty said if he were to stay alive and I died, then you would all be safe. But he shot himself which put me in the horrible position of having to take my own life.

"But I was prepared to do so, John. I should have told you, but I could not do such a thing. If Moriarty's men had any hunch of my being alive, you would have been the first person they would go to. I know you would have never told them the truth, but I had to be careful with whom I told. I had to think about it logically. I went to Molly the night before and asked for her help. She arranged for me to stay at one of her colleague's house whilst I was in hiding. She also had a body take my place in the burial."

"M-Molly knew? Jesus Sherlock... You could trust me! You always had me, if there was anything you needed you could have come to me. Who else knew.." John interrupted, his voice full of disdain.

"I know, John. But I needed to protect you! If it was any other situation I would have told you in a heartbeat, you know that, but I had no choice," Sherlock sighed, sniffing the tears away before continuing his sentence. "Mycroft also knew."

"Bloody brilliant, Sherlock. Do you know how ruined my life has been? How shit I have been feeling because of you? You ruined my life, Sherlock. You just left me here, threw me away, like I was absolutely nothing-"

"John, I understand how you are feeling. I felt it too. Maybe not to the same extreme as yourself, but I felt very similar. I had to fake my own death, _lie_ to you! John this was not an easy thing for me to d-"

"How? _How _did you do it? I took your pulse, remember? I saw you jump!" John said, his voice breaking at the end of his sentence. Sherlock swallowed before looking up at the roof, his eyes searching for John.

"You are right. I did jump, but I did not land on the ground. What you saw, John, was not what really happened. The body was already there, covered in blood and all ripped apart. I had jumped into a dumpster beside the building. I had a bicyclist, unpurposely, knock into you before I had hit the ground. Do you remember? When you fell onto the pavement, you missed the part where I hit the ground. When you stood up, you saw a body where you thought I would have landed. Remember how I continuously told you to keep your eyes on me? It was so you wouldn't see the number of Mycroft's men placing the body where it needed to be. Mycroft had mannequin made to look _exactly _like me. They covered it in a blood packet Molly supplied them with from the hospital, and placed one under its head to keep the blood moving around the pavement." Sherlock sighed as he stopped talking, waiting to see if John had anything to say, but when only quiet sobs were heard, Sherlock continued.

"John, Moriarty had a sniper named Sebastian. He is not happy about Moriarty's death and is anxious to finish what Moriarty started: Me. He know's Mycroft's men have been snooping around his whereabouts and it is only a matter of time before he puts two and two together and realizes I am still alive. This is a huge risk I am taking right now, being here. We have no idea where he is, currently. He could be anywhere, John. But I needed to stop you from doing this, from throwing your precious life away."

"I had missed calls from Mycroft, so I presume he told you I was not answering?" John said, sniffing slightly, moving forward so he could look down the edge, his eyes watering even more at the sight of Sherlock.

"Yes, John. But You should be thankful he did! Look at that is happening. I am here, I am back, and you are alive to see me. John I know this is all a lot to take in.. but I am so tremendously sorry. Sorry will not make up for the pain I have caused you, I am aware, but I am here now. You no longer have to be alone. Please, come down so we can go _home _and have a proper conversation about everything. I owe you so much." Sherlock said, reaching his free hand up towards John, his eyes watering as well. "I love you, John. I always have." Finally. He said it. He finally said the words he had been so terrified of saying, not sure how the other would react. But now was the time, now was the perfect time to say it. Sherlock was now 100% sure about his feelings towards the blogger and he also knew how the other felt about himself. The thought of losing John was one he never wanted to think about ever again; Sherlock could not handle being without him anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

"S-Sherlock..." John whispered before breaking into a sob, dropping his phone onto the roof before turning around and running back to the stairs. His heart pounded as the tears continued flowing, his legs taking him as fast as they could. He no longer cared about what happened or why it happened. John only cared about the fact Sherlock had returned and that he loved him. Sherlock loved him. The thought had never once occurred in John's mind, he was so certain Sherlock was repulsed at the idea of love. But Sherlock was human, even though he acted like a machine at times, and had feelings like everyone else.

Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, John looked around, eagerly, for the exit to the outside world and hurried over to it, the smell of the damp, London, air hitting his nostrils. The wind found him, once again, and blowed its icy cold self upon him, sending chills up John's spine. He looked around until his eyes landed on the beautful figure standing across the street staring at him, their eyes meeting at last. All John could do was stare at him in disbelief, still confused by it all but not complaining. Sherlock looked different, much thinner than before. John remembered how little Sherlock would eat and how he would try to force feed him, but Sherlock looked even thinner than how he was before. This worried John and made him frown, but not once did he take his eyes off of him.


	9. Chapter 9

Once John ran away from the rooftop, Sherlock hung up the call and prepared himself for what was about to take place: finally seeing the love of his life just feet away from him. Sherlock had only dreamed about seeing John again, not once did he ever think they would see each other again, but it was finally happening; his one good dream was finally coming true and he could not have been happier.

Sherlock stood in the same spot, anticipating the arrival of his John, his stomach twisting in all sorts of directions, and his heart racing wildly. He tried to wipe off his tear soaked face, but stopped mid-wipe when someone came running out of the hospital.

_John._

John looked drastically thinner, his once rounded face more angular than he had ever seen, his face unshaven, his hair messy. Sherlock had an idea of how hard John must have taken his departure, but he had no idea it was as bad as his own experience. Sherlock felt even worse, now, about how he had left his poor Dr. Watson. His eyes stayed fixed on the man across the street, his eyes locked on his. John had not moved and neither had Sherlock. Shock had, clearly, taken over both of them, leaving them both motionless and speechless. But Sherlock was tired of being away from John, tired of not being able to stand near him, or shake his hand. With a rather large inhale, Sherlock took a step forward, beginning his walk over to John.

Sherlock was home.


End file.
